


HUNGRY

by Rhoda_Writes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU - Hell, Angst, Being Human - Freeform, Bloodplay, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Horror, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 10:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9816623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhoda_Writes/pseuds/Rhoda_Writes
Summary: Ruby catches an episode ofBeing Human(this one) and uncovers some unpleasant truths. Comes across like an AU but isn't really. Spoilers for Season 1 ofBeing Human. Inspired byJacob's Ladder. Beta'd by MindYourMind. More notes at the end if this is confusing.





	

**1**

New rooms are the best. They don't smell like anyone yet. All clean and tidy, un-lived in, static. Like rooms in a doll's house. There's no life in them. I've lost track of the number of rooms we've parked in over the years. A montage of garishly colored wallpaper, tiny paper-wrapped soaps, and hard, thin carpet flips through my mind like a rolodex. My memories are a bit fuzzy these days. The doll-rooms all look just a shade different--a different piece of cheap art on the wall, the television in a different spot, different colored shower curtains. But something's gotten stuck from one to the other. It's following us like a moth. If I hold very, very still, I can feel it fluttering just outside the windows. It sounds like thunder wrapped in paper towels, and flickers like lightning behind the blinds. 

Someone stirs beside me, and a hundred little details click into place: bed. Night. A lean, muscled body under the covers next to me. French fries getting cold and flaccid on the coffee table. Television tuned to a blur of noise and color I can't seem to focus on. I hear voices inside the screen. A girl, British, says, " _At first, it hurt, and I was frightened. But then . . . the whole world was sharp as a pin._ "  


The boy in the bed mumbles, "What time is it?" His voice still surprises me. It's low and rough, especially half-caught in a dream like it is now.  


"Almost three," I answer.  


One strong arm loops around my waist and tucks me close. I settle into the cradle of his chest. It feels nice in here. Still, and easy.  


"You shouldn't be awake now," he says. "It's not safe. Too close to nighttime, not close enough to day. This is when the monsters are out."  


I lift an eyebrow, even though he can't see it with his eyes closed and his hair falling over his face. "Says who?" I ask him.  


"Somebody. I don't know. I heard it in a movie once."  


I want to laugh at him, but something stops me. Something about monsters.  


The girl in the TV says, " _You could have it again. As much as you want._ " And then, " _We don't have to feed. We could just . . . play._ "  


What am I watching? They aren't sweethearts, these two. Or maybe they are, but they're also something else. Something that _feeds._  


I sit up. Suddenly it's too hot and close in here. The French fries look like pale, fat worms, and the sheets scratch my skin. And there's that lightning-moth, pattering outside the window. Or . . . just outside my head, invisible, where I can't get to it. My chest hurts, right under the ribcage. I press my fingers to the spot and try to remember.  


"What's the matter, Ruby?" he asks.  


Ruby. . . Is that my name? It's familiar, but not quite right. I told him to call me that. My real name is much older. I can't remember it.  


"I don't know, I. . ." I can't remember his name, either. "I need to get out of this room. How long have we been here, anyway? I don't remember checking in."  


"You didn't," he tells me--patiently, as if I'm a child who continually forgets to pack a school lunch. "I checked us in. You met me here later. Like always."  


I nod slowly. Yes, that sounds right. We never come together.  


"You sure you're all right?" he asks. His hand is on my back, his thumb rubbing circles into the base of my neck.  


I let my eyes close and lean back. The pain in my ribcage is ebbing away. What's the matter with me? I can't seem to think clearly. It's that damn moth rattling around in my head.  


"Maybe I ate something weird," I murmur. "Too many fries."  


He laughs gently and kisses my shoulder. "Come back to bed. You'll feel better in the morning."  


It would be so easy to sink under the covers and pretend it's true. He still wants me, and damn I want him too. He runs his hand down my arm and under my tank top, presses the skin of my belly. His mouth is on my neck. I reach back and wind my fingers into his long hair, pulling him closer.  


On the television, the couple on the screen are getting louder, angrier. Something must have happened between them. Something broken that can't be fixed. The girl says, " _I want to believe you. I really do. It's just, you look at me and you're hungry._ "  


The last word cuts through me like a knife. That's when I remember his name: Sam. Winchester. I gasp, dizzy at the memories stretching at the corners of that one name, threatening to overwhelm me. Then I feel teeth.  


**2**

There are a few different types of people who live most of their lives in cars. Some of them just like to travel. Or it's their job to travel, making long commutes to and from cubicles and lunch breaks every weekday. Others keep to the road out of necessity. Or restlessness. Keep moving or die. Like sharks.  


I've been railing about this show I saw a few times at some of the pit stops we've taken lately. I can't remember the name of it, but Sammy doesn't seem to mind. He keeps a hand on the wheel, asks questions when he needs to, and pilfers my fries with his free hand.  


"They're both monsters," I'm saying. "I mean, technically, but it's more about how they get in touch with their humanity by being different."  


"So, not being able to go out in sunlight makes them bond?" he asks.  


"No, that's not the point. They do bad things, but they're not evil. But they bond through not really fitting in on either side of this cosmic war they're fighting."  


"And they're lovers?"  


I lick my fingers and shrug. The night races by outside my window. It's harder to answer that one than I anticipated. Maybe if he'd put it another way. Like if he asked if they were "together." Something about that word. "Lovers." It falls short.  


"Yeah," I finally say. "But. . . I don't know, it's complicated. They have this whole love-hate-sex thing. All their love scenes have lots of blood. It's gross, but kinda sexy, y'know?"  


Sam's mouth twists into a knowing half-smile.  


"What?" I ask.  


"Nothing. I just think I see why you like this show now."  


I arch an eyebrow at him. He's not wrong. But he's still not listening. Something about the people in the television is getting to me, and I want to share it with him. I just can't put my finger on why it matters.  


_You look at me and you're hungry._  


I think for a minute, gathering my words. "It's hard to explain. But I think she loves him a lot more than he loves her. He's trying to be a good guy--and he is, but she represents this temptation for him or something. So when he looks at her, all he sees is the monster, and how close he is to becoming one himself." I pause as another angle occurs to me. "Or maybe it's because she sees him for what he really is, and that scares him."  


It gets quiet. Sam glances at me, his face open but strangely inscrutable. He's so hard to read when he wants to be.  


The conversation drifts. The road continues slipping away beneath us. My chest hurts, a sharp, tugging pain under my ribs. It's been coming and going for a few days. I recline my seat and stretch out, propping my feet on the dash, and try to ignore it. I don't want it to ruin our road time. I like driving between hotel rooms. Just the two of us. Talking about nothing. Right now, we only belong to each other.  


"Hey, Sammy?"  


He goes, "Mm?"  


"What if we just kept going?"  


He doesn't answer except to tap a nervous finger against the steering wheel.  


"I mean it. No more looking for answers, no more blood, no more tracking, just . . . drive. You and me. Let the universe sort itself out without us."  


He sighs. "Ruby. . ."  


So that's a "No." I wasn't expecting anything else. It still hurts, just a little. I lose track of the conversation and let my mind wander until we reach our next stop. It's cheap and tacky, with little hearts on all the doors. I forgot these places even existed. And yet despite that, I feel somehow like we've been here before.  


He lets me get as far as dumping my bag on the floor and mumbling something about a shower, then he snatches me into his arms. His hands are calloused and rough against my skin. I hang onto his shoulders and sling my legs around his waist. The room is tiny, but we still stumble on our way to the bed. We barely get enough of our clothes off to keep going. Barely.  


He claws at my hair, buries his face in my neck and drags his teeth over my skin. I laugh at him. I can't help it. It still surprises me, how vicious he gets in bed. Even before I started feeding him blood, he was like that. All nails and teeth and that low-throated groan that's almost a growl. The animal, the monster, was there the whole time. All I did was unlock the cage door.  


_You look at me and you're hungry._  


A bolt of pain shoots through me. That strange, sharp fluttering from before, right between my ribs. I arch my back against the feeling. He mistakes it for a spasm of pleasure and gathers me onto his lap. I decide to go with it. I tighten my grip and rock against him. I kiss him, hard, again and again, and gasp out, "Get the knife."  


He grapples on the night table until he finds the short blade that usually lives in my boot. He takes a breath. Slows down. Fixes the point of the knife under my chin and tilts my head back. His other hand is in my hair, keeping me looking up while he twists the knife just enough to draw blood. Then he waits. One fat drop blooms and slides down, down my neck, over my collarbone, between my breasts. That's when he moves in with his tongue. He laps at the blood slowly, tracing the path back upward. My flesh dimples in the cool air where his mouth's been.  


When he reaches my face, he cradles my head in both hands and changes it to a real kiss. Long, soft and deep. This is the part I'm never ready for. When he turns gentle. _Dammit._ This wasn't part of the plan. Twisting him around my finger, dialing up his dark side any way I can, turning him on to my own perverse fantasies--sure. I wasn't supposed to fall for him for real.  


I love it too much to stop. My nails dig into his bare back and pull him as close as I can, caving to the kiss. Finally I shudder against him, and every bone in my borrowed body goes soft. It's over. We roll back onto the bed, a tangle of hot skin and warm breath. It takes a few minutes for my brain to kick back in with its noisy chatter. I just lie there in his arms, listening to the quiet.  


After a while, he says, "You okay?"  


"Mm. Always. Wasn't it good for you?"  


"That's not what I mean." He slides his hand over my stomach. "There's something wrong here," he says, brushing his fingers over the spot under my ribcage. "Isn't there?"  


I shiver. I don't like him noticing. "I don't know what it is. It's like . . . something happened that I can't remember."  


"Does it hurt?"  


"Sometimes. And. . ."  


He waits for me.  


"Every so often, there's this noise," I say. "Like a moth flying around in my head. But it crackles like it's made out of electricity." It sounds dumb when I say it out loud. I shrug and shift deeper under the sheets. "I don't know, it's stupid. Probably nothing."  


His eyebrows knit together, but he doesn't press me for more. "Probably," he agrees. Then he curls an arm around my back and pulls me onto his chest. I nuzzle his neck and pretend to sleep.  


"Ruby?" he whispers.  


"What?"  


"The monster girl, in that show you've been talking about."  


My insides feel heavy."Yeah?" I ask.  


"What happens to her in the end?"  


It doesn't have to mean anything. The boy and girl in the TV don't have anything to do with us. I tell myself that, but don't believe it.  


I stare into the darkness of the close, quiet room, and say, "She dies."  


**3**

The shocks are getting more frequent. The thing I've been thinking of as a lightning-moth is much bigger, and angrier, than I realized. A white-hot current surges through my veins in stages. It lights up my skin from underneath, like I swallowed the fluid from inside a hundred glow-sticks. It rips me up so hard I seize up and collapse.  


Sam's always there in a second. He wraps me up tight in his long arms and mutters, "Easy, I've got you, it's okay," until the moment passes. This last time, though. It's different. He hangs onto me. When the shockwaves are over, he's still trembling. _He's_ trembling.  


"I'm sorry, Ruby," he murmurs, his voice choked with unshed tears. "I'm so, so sorry."  


Sorry. . . I frown. Something sticks in the back of my mind like a needle. A detail I can't quite. . .  


I shrug my way out of his arms and twist to face him. "For what?"  


His face is miserable, crumpled with pain. He pulls away and leans his hands against a high, arched window sill. The room is too dark and wide now. It looks less and less like a motel, and more like. . .  


"Sammy, for what?" I repeat.  


The walls and floor are stone. It smells like old magic and long-dead ghosts. Where are we?  


"I didn't know it would be like this," says Sam. "It's always over so fast. There's this light show, and screaming, and it's just finished. I never thought you'd be trapped here."  


"Where is here?" I ask. I'm starting to panic. It's too familiar, and I don't want to know the answer, but I can't not ask. "Where are we?"  


He still won't face me. He just shakes his head and keeps talking. "You were supposed to just go away. And I told myself that it was your fault, and everything that happened to you was okay. You were _evil_ and you tricked me, so you deserved it."  


The walls are disintegrating around us. Glass shatters and falls to the floor. Dust rises in web-like tendrils. The stone foundation cracks and sinks.  


"I get it now," he says. "I was only in Hell for a year and a half. You were there for centuries. I would've done anything to get out again."  


"Sam, you're scaring me."  


Then there's a knock on the door. I look, and there are two images overlapping on top of each other, like tracing paper. One is an ordinary hotel door with a little heart right in the middle. The other is iron-reinforced wood, bound by dark magic. I've been here before.  


Another bolt of pain slices me up through the middle. I double over and clutch both hands against it.  


"I started dreaming about you," says Sam. "First I thought it was just memories, but they felt different. It was like you were really there."  


"But I _am_ here."  


The knocking's getting louder. Dust rattles from the frame of the door behind the door. A voice shouts from the other side. He's calling Sam's name.  


I start backing away. I don't want to see this.  


But Sam catches me. He pins my arms from behind. "I know," he says, mouth close to my ear. "Remembering hurts, but it's the only way out."  


The voice behind the door yells, "Sam!"  


I know that voice. It belongs to someone who hates me. The ancient wood rattles and groans. He's going to break it down. I struggle against Sam's grip, but he holds me steady.  


"I'm so sorry, Ruby," says Sam. "If I could wish you out of this, I would, but I can't. Please. You have to _remember_."  


I don't want to remember. It's hurts too much. He knows it, too. He's seen how bad it can get when you get too close to the darkness inside. But _how_ does he know? Why was Sam in Hell? Oh no. . . Did I send him there? Was it my fault? What happened in this room?  


"Who's out there?" I ask.  


Two breaths pass before he answers, "It's Dean."  


The door explodes inwards. Sam's brother has the knife I gave them. It's one of the only things that can kill demons for good. At least that's what I used to believe. Now, I'm not sure. Nothing really dies.  


Dean charges towards me. At the last second, I screw my eyes shut. It only takes a moment. A light show and a scream, just like he said.  


. . . then I wake up.  


Another room. New, fresh, clean. It doesn't smell like anyone else yet. Cold fries on the coffee table, the television buzzing with static, a warm body in the bed next to me, and a moth at the window outside. It flickers at the slatted blinds like lightning. Funny, but it doesn't seem weird at the time, a moth flickering.  


How long have we been in this room? Feels like a long time. But it also feels like we just got here. I'm having trouble remembering. Just little things. At least I hope it's little things. . .  


The boy in the bed stirs. "Hey," he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. Sam. His name is Sam.  


I smile. "Hey, you." I reach back until I find his hand, then I pull him up and wrap his arm around me. "Sleep okay?"  


He lets out a noncommittal, "Mm," in response.  


I turn so I can see his face. It shocks me into wakefulness. His eyes look so tired and sad. "What's wrong?"  


"Bad dream," he says vaguely, and gives me a weak smile.  


I brush his hair back with my fingers. He leans into my touch.  


"Tell me," I say.  


But he shakes his head. "Some other time, maybe."  


The static on the television resolves into shapes I recognize. A man and a woman, young, British. " _We don't have to feed_ ," says the girl. " _We can just . . . play._ "

 

**THE END.**

**Author's Note:**

> So if you haven't seen _Jacob's Ladder_ : It's about a man who has been killed, but doesn't remember it. So as he's in the process of dying--which only takes an hour or two in the real world--his mind constructs this elaborate alternate reality that's partly based on his home life, and partly Hell, which he experiences as several years. He can't "move on" to the next life until he remembers what really happened to him.
> 
> So that's kind of what's going on with Ruby here. She can't remember Dean killing her at the end of Season 4, and constructs this flashback-world of her time with Sam to cope. The twist is after going to Hell himself, Sam can now reach her when he's dreaming and is trying to help her move on. I know the timeline's weird, but it's kind of supposed to be.
> 
> (Watch _Jacob's Ladder_. It is my very favorite horror movie.)


End file.
